


Clipped Wings

by Stingalingaling



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blindness, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Harold Finch, Hurt John Reese, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, Snow, Whump in general really, woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29107242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stingalingaling/pseuds/Stingalingaling
Summary: A number goes badly wrong for John and Harold. Left on their own in snowy woodlands, they need to work together to find shelter.
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese
Comments: 24
Kudos: 28





	Clipped Wings

**Author's Note:**

> My deepest thanks to Branwyn for beta readings my tenses and eliminating my more extreme britishisms.
> 
> Also to everyone on The Subway who have supported me both personally and as a writer. This is blind!John aka Whump in the Woods. x

Being knocked out from behind by their number was professionally insulting, but groggily, John thinks he can still make up for it. He's still alive for one thing, and the zip tie at his wrists is the cheap kind made for cables, not actual restraints. He’s also aware he’s been bundled onto the backseat of James Hunter’s car, another amateur move on the part of his assailant, but at least if he’s preoccupied with John, then Mrs. Hunter must be safe.

Cautiously opening his eyes, John sees only trees and the night sky flash by. Underneath the road is bumpy and no other vehicles pass with tell-tale lights. The number was driving for some privacy to dispose of his body? John wonders when he ceased to be dangerous. The rise of Samaritan has forced him to color in between the lines and he hates the feeling of impotence. James Hunter thinks John is incapacitated and not a threat? Time for a rude awakening. John snaps the cheap tie and lunges forward, one arm around the surprised Hunter, the other reaching for the wheel. Hunter panics, brakes hard and sends the car spinning. Control for the wheel is lost and the car hits something, then flips. John pulls back to protect himself but his head hits the grab handle hard and glass starts to fly around him as the car rolls sideways, picking up speed until hitting what he guesses is a tree. Its momentum thwarted, the car lurches in the opposite direction, and it crashes back upright with a smash of broken axle and a scream of pain.

It is incredibly dark when he opens his eyes to assess the damage. His head is hurting like it’s been pounded with rocks, but the darkness is unnatural, odd. There was moonlight before and now he literally can’t see his hand in front of his face. Also, there’s a disturbing knocking in John’s brain. It’s the only thing he seems to register apart from the darkness and the pain, but pain is an old friend and he tries to dismiss it. There is something he needs to remember but the knocking is distracting. The scream when the car finally came to a stop? Yes, that was a human sound, he needs to check on that. He sits upright and reaches for Hunter’s pulse. There’s so much blood he’s not surprised he can’t find one.

But the knocking continues. He wants it to be mechanical, the last groans of a dying vehicle, but it’s too irregular. John lunges out the car door to breathe in the air. The moon has truly disappeared, in fact everything has disappeared in his blindness. His head is raw and tender to the touch and he knows it’s a serious wound even without the knocking. Sudden movements make him want to be sick and his brain is being very slow to comprehend that the knocking is from the trunk of the car.

Oh God, was Mrs. Hunter in the car all along? He’d been so confident she was safe and now he has to deal with her when he’d rather just lie down and let the world spin on. Reluctantly, John feels his way to the back of the vehicle and pops the trunk.

“Mr. Reese! Oh thank God.”

John’s mushy brain is still playing catch up. Shouldn’t that voice be coming from his earpiece?

“Harold,” he says finally. “Are you alright?”

“It wasn’t a particularly comfortable way to travel.” John hears him catch his breath. “I might have broken my arm.” There is a teeth-sucking noise. “Oh, yes! I’ve definitely broken my arm.”

“Why aren’t you in the subway?”

“Mr. Hunter sent an anonymous text to his wife arranging a meeting. I was closest to her, so I went to warn her.”

“Is she alright?”

“Yes, I put her in a taxi just in time, but her husband wasn’t very happy about it.” There is a pause. “John?” There is a detectable note of exasperation. “Can you give me a hand to get out?”

The maneuver is surprisingly awkward and he finds taking the weight difficult. John’s head spins a little faster and a metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. He’s relieved when the exertion is over.

“Harold,” he begins. “I have a problem too. I… I can’t see anything. And I need to sit down before I fall down.”

Somehow, he finds the back seat and sits with his head as low as he can to help the blood flow.

“Oh.” Harold says, but John thinks there might have been a curse under his breath too. “That head wound does look really nasty. Our team isn’t doing very well on this one, are we?”

“Better than Hunter. At least we’re still breathing.” John needs his brain to focus. He has a life other than his own to think about now. “Check his pockets for a phone.”

He feels the driver’s door open and hears more teeth sucking.

“Yes, it’s fair to say our number is no longer a threat.” Harold’s voice is doing that mild sarcastic tone he usually reserves to criticize excessive violence or poor table manners. But then Harold gets squeamish when there’s a lot of blood, John decides to ignore it.

An object hits his arm. “Yours, I think.” John fumbles and finds Harold passing him his gun back.

“You should probably keep that, Harold.”

“I’m not about to shoot anybody with it, Mr. Reese.”

“There might be bears,” John jokes, but he weighs the reassuring heft, ejects the clip to check the load, then snaps it back. The familiarity of the weapon is comforting and he puts it in his pocket.

“He only has a burner phone,” Harold continues. “There’s no signal, too remote. Although I doubt there are any bears around here.”

“Where is here, do you know?”

Harold groans. “I didn’t exactly have a window seat these past two hours,” he says.

“Tell me what it looks like,” John hisses in return.

Harold is silent for a time and he wonders if he is sulking, but his voice returns, full of information.

“Woods on either side of a narrow unpaved service road. No lights in any direction. The trees look managed but not actively coppiced. Judging by the bumpy ride, the track doesn’t see much traffic. I remember we turned off and drove for about twenty minutes like this.”

A nice quiet place to dump a couple of bodies, John thinks but he keeps it to himself. Harold is on the move again. John feels the car lightly bounce as he searches the trunk.

“No shovel in the car,” he mutters, evidently thinking the same thing. “So that’s promising. I wonder what made him lose control of the car like that?”

John doesn’t feel like answering that. “Does it matter? I guess you didn't tell anyone where you were going?”

“No, did you?”

No, he hadn’t. That would’ve been the sensible thing to have done. John rubs his eyes, but nothing helps. His vision is completely gone, and his head is pounding with pain. Even his eyebrows are hurt when he touches them. He’s vaguely aware of the front passenger door being yanked open as Harold searches for supplies.

There’s a small scrabble in the glove box, then a click, and then suddenly a startled yelp and a thud. John rises quickly, too quickly, and holds the car to keep himself upright. There’s a curious scrambling sound and then he thinks he hears someone throwing up.

“Harold, are you alright?”

“I will be,” Harold replies a little further off. His voice is sheepish. “I found a working flashlight. And I can confirm Mr. Hunter is well and truly beyond resuscitation. The crash decapitated…” He breaks off and John hears more retching. “His head seems to have landed face up in the footwell. When I checked the flashlight, well, safe to say, we were both a little surprised.”

John accepts the information phlegmatically. He is starting to feel cold.

He asks, “Is it me or is the temperature dropping?”

“It’s dropping.”

“I don’t suppose you can get the car heater working, can you?”

“Next on my list. But if he had a mechanical issue, we might have a serious problem.”

John decides to sit again and consider their options. Staying warm is a priority but they both need medical attention. Deserted roads in the woods don’t get a lot of passing traffic and nobody knows they are out there. They're going to have to walk back to the main road. Yes, John thinks, if I can get Harold at least back to safety.

“John.”

He jumps at the sound of Harold’s voice so near to him; he hadn’t heard him walk back. “I can’t fix the power, there’s too much damage in the way. I need you to help me with this. Oh sorry.” Something touches John’s hand. He takes it and feels a roll of two-inch duct tape. Harold continues, “I’ve found a newspaper too. Can you help me wrap around my arm and tape it in place?”

Practical things, John can do. He rises slowly and runs his nails, searching for the end of the tape, and pulls a stretch of it, then he feels carefully for Harold’s arm and shoulder. It’s the left arm he’s broken, and John helps him pull the newspaper tight and tapes it. Harold pulls his arm defensively against his body. “I need it holding in place too,” he says.

“Probably going to ruin this suit,” John jokes lightly.

“Least of our worries.”.

They work in silence despite the occasional hiss of pain, Harold turns slowly as John guides the tape over his shoulder and round his damaged arm. They get three complete loops before the tape runs out. Then they stand with their backs to the car and catch their breaths. The air is noticeably colder now. John feels like ice is forming on his skin.

“We can’t stay here, Harold.”

“Agreed.”

“We have to get back to the main road.”

He hears Harold sniff and breath out.

“That must be about ten miles, Mr. Reese. I don’t think we can make it.”

John interrupts, “Then I’ll stay here and you go for help.”

“I can’t cover that distance.”

Exasperated John says, “Then  _ you _ stay here and  _ I’ll _ go for help!”

There’s a frustrated sort of gurgle before Harold replies, “Dr. Campbell really does have a point about your hero complex.”

“What do you suggest then?”

“I think our only option is to continue onwards and see what’s at the end of this track. The late Mr. Hunter was evidently taking us somewhere.”

“Somewhere remote to dump our bodies,” John feels the need to stress.

“Which he could have done anywhere along the route. No, there has to be something  _ there _ . A place. Something!” But ruefully, he adds, “Even if it’s just where he keeps his shovel.”

Nodding his head sends shooting pains through his body, but John agrees to Harold’s plan. He’s in no condition to strike out on his own and frankly isn’t sure which direction is which. Did the car spin out? Harold puts his right arm around him, and John reciprocates with his left. The simple action of one foot in front of the other is hard. John feels his body sag and is surprised at how weak he feels. He's covered more ground than this when injured. But he keeps moving because Harold is with him, and John needs to get him to safety. If he stops, Harold is too stubborn to leave him, and they'll die. Iris might have a lot to say about Professor Whistler’s overblown hero complex too.

Time loses it’s meaning to John as the air chills and snow starts to lick against his face and hands. His head likes the feel of cold flakes building on his hair. It makes his thoughts seem clearer.

“How you doing, Harold?”

He hears a breathy intake before his friend replies, “Fine.” The voice is weak, gasping for air. John knows the man has surprising levels of resilience, but he worries how long they can keep going. He shifts his arm to better his weight and comes into contact with Harold’s face. It feels very warm in contrast to John’s cold hand. In fact, it feels like it’s on fire. There is swelling too and John can’t find the glasses that should be there. He pulls them up to a halt.

“What else haven’t you told me?” he demands to know.

“It’s not too bad.” But John isn’t moving until he hears everything. “The late Mr. Hunter was interested to know where I’d sent his wife. That’s all.”

“He beat you?” John hadn't even considered that possibility.. “How bad is it?”

“Mostly my face, although my ribs are a bit painful, and… and… he ground my glasses into my left hand.” The voice races on with embarrassment. “Can we get moving again please?”

Although he’d used ‘please’, John knows it isn’t negotiable. Harold is already tugging them forward and John lurches a foot in concession. As they walk, softly, he reaches across his body and covers Harold’s damaged left hand with his own. There’s a makeshift bandage which feels like he must have used his tie, but he can still feel the cold fingers and gently hopes his own cold hand will protect them from the elements. He wishes Hunter were alive so he could kill him again.

After twenty minutes, the air starts to feel cleaner and the smell of damp wood has given way to something fresher. John realizes a breeze is reaching them from the left.

“Where are we now?”

“I’m sorry. It seems I made the wrong choice. This is the end of our journey I think, Mr. Reese. We’ve reached the shore of a lake.” John hears the sadness and the guilt. “I really thought there would be something more here.” The tiredness and near exhaustion are evident in his voice too. They have come too far to even think of turning back and they both know it. They have found their last resting place, as Hunter had intended all along.

“No.” John’s addled brain can’t accept that and his professionalism kicks in. “You don’t just drop bodies at the shore of a lake. Look around, Harold. There must be a boat or something. You were right, we have to keep going.”

Doggedly, it’s his turn to push them forward now, relying on Harold’s eyes to find them a shelter, but the disappointment is eating his own strength. He doesn’t mind dying, but he wants Harold to be safe. He’s all that matters.

“Oh John! I see it. There’s a small boathouse up ahead.”

“Get yourself to safety,” John mumbles as the darkness of his eyes finally overwhelms his brain too.

He awakens to colored stars and a feeling of warmth and security. The stars are something of an improvement and he cherishes them tumbling across his vision as he tries to figure out where he is. He remembers something about a boathouse and some partial fragments of half remembered noises. A lock being smashed, his feet dragging on a wooden floor, and a match being lit. He’s lying on his left side on coarse wood now, his head is still pounding but it’s raised slightly, and his cheek feels a comforting woolen fabric beneath him. It’s much warmer than being outside, there is a smell of a kerosene heater and he can feel the coarse fibers of a blanket over him. He tries to remember what else happened but is distracted by the weight around his shoulder: an arm, resting gently, but nevertheless holding him.

“Harold?”

John’s brain is far from functioning perfectly, but he’s figured out that his friend is sitting upright and that he must have been sleeping on his lap. “Harold?” he repeats, a little louder, but there is no response. A sudden wave of panic washes over him. “No, please, no…”

“What?” comes a reedy, barely audible reply that makes John’s heart sing.

“Are you awake?” he asks.

Harold gives a snort that folds into coughing. “I am now. How are you feeling?”

John decides to risk his head and sit upright. The stars increase and swoop in complaint, but he makes it and finds himself next to Harold with his back to a wall.

“We’re not dead yet,” he says with satisfaction.

“Somehow. Though I fear we’ve only prolonged the inevitable.” John can tell he’s beyond exhausted. Harold barely has the strength to manage more than a whisper. “No-one is coming to save us.”

“I’m sorry I got us into this mess,” John confesses.

“The Machine gave us Mr. Hunter’s number. There are always risks.”

“No, I mean.” John takes a breath. “I mean, the car crash. I should’ve waited until Hunter pulled over. I think my pride was hurt.”

“Sounds reckless.”

“I didn’t know you were in the trunk.”

John feels Harold’s shoulder lean into him. His body seems to sag in relief.

“Hmm, yes, well. I should’ve called Fusco to help Mrs. Hunter but I wanted to do something helpful, to feel less useless. With Samaritan watching everything, trying to make a difference has become so hard.”

John understands that. As much as he hated the restraints being a cop imposed on him, he’d only ever been amused at Harold pretending to be the upright Professor Whistler. He hadn’t thought about how much Harold would have been chafing at the bit to ‘do more’. And now, they’d probably blown their chances of helping anyone ever again.

“You said someday we’d both probably end up dead,” John says in reminder.

“How prophetic of me. Feels like a lifetime ago.”

“I miss our old lives. I miss the library and I miss,” John pauses, then commits to the word. “Us.”

“We had our moments, didn’t we?”

A noise outside interrupts their bleary reminiscences. Jon is alert but Harold doesn’t seem to care.

“Maybe it’s the bears come to finish us off?” he suggests.

The noise repeats. It’s the sound of a vehicle door. John tries to rationalize. It made too heavy a sound for a car and two doors means two people. Reaching for the gun in his pocket, he waits. Footsteps approach and he hears a weather-beaten door creak open. Light streams in with such force that John flinches. Between the multi-colored stars he can make out a blurred figure in a doorway.

“I’ve found them, Root.” It’s Shaw’s voice. “No wonder The Machine wanted us to steal an ambulance. What with the headless corpse you left back there, you guys look like you’ve been in a horror movie.”

“Shaw,” John says quietly with a smile. “It’s good to see you.”

“That’s the concussion talking,” she replies briskly, dropping down and checking his pulse. “You know, when I signed on to help save people, I didn’t think it would be your sorry asses all the time.”

“Oh crap.” Root’s voice has joined them and what’s more, John can make out her shape and concerned face. Nevertheless, she adds, “The Machine says you’re welcome, and that, by the way, you are both idiots.”

“And she’s never wrong,” John adds happily and looks across to Harold. His face is a mass of swollen bruises and cuts and though it’s still a bit swirly, what looks like had once been a white shirt is now indelibly stained pink.

“God, Harold. You look terrible .”

Root is fussing about him with a med kit, and Harold’s had his eyes closed, so it takes him a moment to realize.

“Do I? Oh.” He smiles back through his injuries, light dancing in his eyes. “I see.”

THE END 


End file.
